Near to the Wild Heart

She breathed in the warm, clear afternoon air and the part of her that needed water was still tense and stiff like someone waiting blindfolded for a gunshot

Otávio,” she’d suddenly say to him, “has it ever occurred to you that a dot, a single dot without dimensions, is the utmost solitude?

Why did a waxed, clean house make her feel lost as if she were in a monastery, forlorn, wandering its corridors? And a lot of other things that she also observed.

Besides: how could she tie herself to a man without allowing him to imprison her? How could she prevent him from developing his four walls over her body and soul? And was there a way to have things without those things possessing her?

“Didn’t you think it was odd . . . funny that I told you to write the question down to keep?”

“No,” she said.

She turned back to the courtyard.

“Didn’t you think it was odd . . . funny that I told you to write the question down to keep?”

The last sunlight trembled outside in the green branches. The pigeons scratched the loose earth. From time to time the breeze and the silence of the school courtyard reached the classroom. Then everything became lighter, the teacher’s voice floated like a white flag.

“And he and his whole family lived happily ever after.” Pause—the trees rustled in the garden, it was a summer’s day. “Write a summary of this story for our next class.”

Still immersed in the story the children moved slowly, eyes light, mouths satisfied.

“What do you get when you become happy?” Her voice was a clear, sharp arrow. The teacher looked at Joana.

“Repeat the question . . . ?”

Silence. The teacher smiled as she stacked up the books.

“Ask it again, Joana. I didn’t hear you properly.”

“I’d like to know: once you’re happy what happens? What comes next?” she repeated obstinately.

The woman stared at her in surprise.

“What a thought! I don’t think I know what you mean, what a thought! Ask it again in other words . . .”

“Being happy is for what?”

The teacher flushed—no one was ever sure why she went red. She noticed the whole class and sent them off for their break

The last sunlight trembled outside in the green branches. The pigeons scratched the loose earth. From time to time the breeze and the silence of the school courtyard reached the classroom. Then everything became lighter, the teacher’s voice floated like a white flag

You, who knows me well, would find me such a simpleton compared to her. So imagine the impression she made on my poor, scarce family: it was as if I’d brought to its ample pink bosom —remember, Alfredo?—they laughed—it was as if I’d brought the smallpox microbe, a heretic, goodness knows what . . . Whatever, I really hope the little one there doesn’t repeat her. Or me, for God’s sake . . . Fortunately I get the impression Joana is going to follow her own path . . .”

“Sometimes it feels like I have a warm egg in my hand. Sometimes, nothing: total memory loss . . . Occasionally it feels like I have a girl of my own, really mine.”